Feeling
by KristieConspiracy
Summary: And maybe-not-maybe-so, Molly no-not-that-one, Molly Weasley broke. Written for the Character Development competition. TRIGGER WARNING: self harm.


**Challenge:** Muffled Chimes' _The Character Development Competition _on HPFC; TeddyRemusPotter's _the Variety Challenge_ on HPFC; Lamia of the Dark's _One of Every Letter Challenge_

**Character: **Molly Weasley II, Lysander and Lorcan Scamander-Lovegood, Audrey Weasley (who marries Percy)

**Prompt: ****M**olly Weasley II, "I walk beneath your pens..."; **Di**alogue 381: _That's what he wants you to think_; **F**.

**Word count:** 2,297

**A/N: Trigger warning** for self-harm. I'm not an expert in depression, particularly the extreme variety: I have experienced it in the past but, as you might be aware, that tends to be more a haze that removes any strong emotion, so the period isn't particularly memorable to me. I apologise for inaccuracies.  
>As for how this is character development, I was trying to go for a descent into a depression and a reaction to a possible reprieve. The bizarre-spaced-like-this blocks of text are largely meant to characterise how Molly II thinks of things (at least in my mind); specifically by saying them as quickly as possible to get them out so she can keep up with her thoughts, at least at first. Also, an explanation for the list and apparent loathing of the news, Molly has always been a fiction writer in my mind.<br>Finally, this writing style is experimental. I am by no means used to writing without using dialogue; it was intended as a stream of consciousness (with a quick flip to Audrey Weasley and Lorcan).

* * *

><p><strong>"I walk beneath your pens, and am not what I truly am,<strong>  
><strong>but what you'd prefer to imagine me." <strong>

― Juana Inés de la Cruz

* * *

><p>There's a darkness to the world that not everyone can see. If they are asked to give an example of real <em>darkness<em>, they mention the night.

But night isn't dark, that's what her-cousins-boyfriend-the-artist says. Night is a swirl of blues and violets and greens. It is dots of light from planets hundreds and thousands of years, and billions upon billions of miles, away from the world-we-know. It is a moon hanging over head, now an all-seeing orb in the sky, now a circle hacked in two, now a sliver, now a memory. And even when the moon is gone, there is colour. And, he says, where there's colour, there can be no darkness.

But Molly, no-not-mother-Molly-I'm-Percy's-daughter-no-he's-not-the-reject-don't-presume-things-you-know-nothing-about, Molly has a list of things that have _real_ darkness. It's a list she's been writing all her life, a list that sprang from an idea and a list of things-that-are-good – because where there is good, there must be bad, and why shouldn't that bad be darkness? There's genocide, entire people, all the same, just gone, just like that. There's the drip-drip-pause-drip of blood drip-drip-pause-dripping from the wrists of a girl who no longer knows what it means to want to live. There's the thump-thump-thump of the thump-thump-thumping heart of a man who can't be killed, not because he's immortal, no-don't-be-stupid, but because her Uncle Harry, yes-Harry-Potter-the-Boy-who-Lived-even-though-he-hates-that-name, Uncle Harry changed the rules so now people can't die for their crimes, they have to waste away slowly, slowly, slowly.

And there's her-cousins-boyfriend-the-artist who was her best friend once. He's all light colours and (dirty-dirty-filthy) blond hair and eyes like the sky at noon, him and his twin brother, dirty-dirty-filthy-liars, both of them. Words spill from the lips of the artist-who-was-her-best-friend, words falling like the drip-drip-pause-drip of the blood from the wrists of a girl who no longer knows what it is to want to live, every word a lie, lie, lie, but does he know? _What if he doesn't know?_

And Molly, no-not-that-Molly, Molly has loved him for as long as she has known him, which is all her life (even though toddlers don't understand love, do they?). But Molly no-not-that-Molly, Molly isn't good enough for Lysander-the-nice-twin, is she? Molly no-not-that-Molly, Molly isn't good enough for _anyone_.

But she tries, tries, tries. She tries so hard to be good enough for everyone, but of course she's sleeping enough (why wouldn't she be?). She just wants to be the things that will please everyone: what everyone wants _to_ be, what everyone wants _her_ to be, what everyone _thinks_ is perfect. She looks perfect, yes; perfectly perfect, with her oh-so-confident smiles and her never-ever-ever complaining and her so-so-neat hair and her so-so-flattering glasses.

But her eyes scream out the sadness she pretends isn't there at all (of course it's not you're Molly no-not-that-Molly, Molly Weasley, what have you got to be sad about?), and her hair is dry as the desert her Uncle Bill yes-the-one-who-married-a-halfblood-so-what, Uncle Bill tells stories about (no not bloody stories my family isn't just the war) pyramids and sand and no water for miles-miles-miles. Her skin is starting to chap and her eyes are red behind her made-up mask (even if she's not wearing any, no-mum-I'm-not-wearing-any-makeup-at-all-don't-be-silly, not at all).

And at night, when little-little-Lucy is asleep and cousin-Lilys'-boyfriend-the-artist is gone and her dad is too distracted by work (not that that's a problem, no-not-at-all) to see what's right in front of him, at night she cries tears that fall too fast to stop. They drench her bedspread and there's no pause in her version of the drip-drip-pause-drip, there's no time because everything is so very _wet_. Then she hides it all with some lie-lie-lies (not that she'd ever not tell the truth, not like dirty-dirty-filthy liar Lysander-the-nice-twin) and pretends like she's the perfect daughter (she is, isn't she, perfect Molly no-not-that-Molly, Molly with the glasses and the neat hair and the huge-huge-huge family, how could she ever _not_ be perfect?) when her mum asks why the laundry is already done.

And one day, she's thinking. She's thinking _God,_because her mum says that and why shouldn't she (not that she's imperfect no-don't-say-that-it's-blasphemy), _God I wish this was real_.

And then she just stops pretending because _it doesn't matter_ and why should she pretend to be something she isn't (and will never-ever-ever be)?

Only Molly no-not-her doesn't know what she is when she's not pretending.

For little-little-Lucy she's always been happy and willing to read her oh-so-so-so-very-bloody boring articles and give her feedback that's always too-too-too positive (because little-little-Lucy had to be perfect just-like-Molly-no-not-that-Molly, and she has to think she's good-better-best), only now she doesn't have the energy because reading about boring-boring-boring wizarding news just makes her want to throw up. For Lysander-the-nice-twin she's the one who came up with shiny-pretty-intriguing new ideas for pictures and lively debates, but now she can't even bring herself to say hello. For her dad not-the-reject, for her muggleborn-but-not-as-good-as-Aunt-Hermione mum, the perfect daughter disappears overnight.

At first Audrey the not-quite-as-good-as-Aunt-Hermione mother is relieved that her eldest-perfect-perfect-daughter is relinquishing her control over everything. It isn't long before she realises _this_ is worse. Her little Molly-the-second, the perfect-perfect-daughter, she's nothing without the mask. She doesn't wear any of that horrid makeup, but she also doesn't bother with any other factor of her appearance. Her eyes are sad, but not quite - it's like there's a veil hiding their innermost depths, far beyond the reaches of her poor, nervous, horrified mother.

It isn't until mother Audrey invades Molly's room that she really _knows_ something is wrong. The place is a wreck, things everywhere - but not as though they've been tossed, just as though they've not been put away. And her Molly - her perfect-perfect-daughter, she's sitting on her bed in the middle of the chaos. She's not moving, not doing anything. Her wand lies on the bed beside her, and Audrey's heart jumps into her throat before she realises that the dark red blots on the floor are her daughters hair, _not_ her blood. She's hacked at her perfect waves and now they're a mess, fallen around her, and her matted hair is uneven and _God, just so ugly_ that Audrey wants to look away, walk out, close the door and pretend she never saw.

But she did see. So she envelops her not-so-perfect daughter in her arms and whispers words she hasn't used since Lucy was actually little and woke from nightmares of fire and blood. Before the day is out, not-so-perfect Molly has an appointment with a specialist. It doesn't matter to Audrey that Molly didn't ask; what matters is that she _needs_ this.

(But to Molly, it isn't worth the effort.)

* * *

><p>Hogwarts starts again, and for Lucy and the others it's all rainbows and pixies and other magical things, things that they would never complain about. They love Hogwarts; it is the symbol of what makes them astounding.<p>

But to Molly and her fixed (only not really) hair, it's all shades of gray. The magic doesn't matter, not to her; everything is hazy behind the hue of the drugs the specialist said would help. Her head is constantly aching and the pain is distracting her, as if the dull glow taken on by everything around her isn't distracting enough.

For the first week, she endures - but then she decides that's it been long enough.

(She gives up.)

The world is back in Molly's awareness, and she thinks the drugs are lingering. Everything is still blurred and matted and gray, and everything spins around her, and she can't sleep because it just takes too long to get to sleep, it's too much time to think.

At some point she falls (or does she jump?) down three flights of stairs, and her knee slices open soundlessly. She doesn't so much as whimper while a professor and some students ('Lily saw it all', 'did it hurt', 'can you walk', 'do you need to go to the hospital wing?' are just some of the things her-cousins-boyfriend-the-artist asks in his too-fast voice), staring in fascination at her discovery. She can _feel_ it, this biting wound, the release of crimson drip-drip-pause-dripping down her greedy knee, and she wonders if she can slice deep-deep-deeper in other places, and maybe-not-maybe-so she's going to try and see what happens when she does.

At first she's hesitant. She rations herself and her moments of lucidity: only once a month, now once a fortnight, now once a week. And, oh, that homework assignment needs clarity, I'll do it now - and Lysander-the-nice-twin has a question, I wonder if a little-little-tiny prick will be enough? - and Professor-Longbottom-the-demon has been asking nosy-nosy questions, maybe the high will get me through it without break-ruin-cracking. And soon it's more than once a week; it's once a day, once a break. She doesn't even notice as the slices get deep-deep-deeper and close-close-closer to deadly-dangerous patches of flesh. After all, maybe Molly doesn't want to die, but neither does she want to live.

Besides, she can't tell the difference anymore.

* * *

><p>And then, one day, Molly skips a class for the first time ever. She skips two, three, all. No one sees her all day; her Ravenclaw roommates say she's sick. But is she, is she really, or is it another lie, a fib to protect someone?<p>

They let it slide for a day.

Then day two comes around, day three and four; she's not at breakfast. Nobody is surprised, because Molly Weasley the Second is hardly ever at breakfast with them anymore because _she's too good for them_ and besides, she's a freak in their eyes. She's just the daughter of the reject Weasley and a muggleborn who wasn't good enough.

Even tiny pixie-like Lucy with her mothers' build and eyes, even Lucy shrugs off Lorcan-the-cruel-twins' questions. After all, everyone knows Lorcan Scamander-Lovegood is the ruthless jokester who would do anything for a laugh. So Lucy tells Lorcan-the-cruel-twin to shut up and bugger off, and why doesn't he mind his own business anyway? Then she turns to her-cousin-and-friend, Lily, and she says to the worried girl that _that's what he wants you to think_, like _he's_ some kind of heartless git. And maybe, _maybe_, he is. But not over this. Not when _Molly_ might be suffering alone somewhere, hurt or dying or dead (after all, she hasn't really been herself lately, has she?).

So Lorcan enlists Lysander-the-artist instead (who doesn't want to get on Lily's bad side by disobeying Lucy but if Molly's in trouble...), and the twins - troublemakers to rival the infamous Weasley twins who came before - the twins go looking.

_And Molly's not in the dorm, is she, no, she's not. Look on the Marauder's Map (no I didn't steal it, don't be daft; Lily knows I've got it), she's not anywhere near the Ravenclaw dorms at all, not even in their Tower. Lysander this-is-important, where is she?_

And after a couple hours, Lysander-the-nice-twin has a class to get to, astronomy (because he's worried, yes, but he has to get a NEWT in astronomy if he wants to be an apprentice diviner, don't you know?), but Lorcan keeps the map and stays. He's staring at the thing twenty minutes later when he catches a movement on the top-top-top corner, up near Gryffindor tower, and off he run-run-runs, sprinting because _she's not moving oh Merlin please Merlin don't let her be dead don't let her be dead._

And then everything is healing spells whispered to a dark caress, and then everything's fading, fading, fading, and something so _warm_ is touching her and wasn't that spot bleeding just a few minutes ago and how am I still alive?

And Lorcan-the-maybe-not-so-cruel-twin is laughing and crying and he kisses her tears away and he's saying lots of things that don't quite make sense, like _don't you leave me alone selfish selfish girl_ and _I get that Lysander was your world but why can't I be that too, just for a little while, please please let me stay beside you long enough for you to live_. And Molly Weasley the Second looks at his wide-wide eyes in all their sky-at-noon-blue glory, and she wonders at his tears when he doesn't know the half of anything that's happened, but she nods, she nods, she nods.

Because his hand is clutching hers and _she can_ _feel it_.


End file.
